


When you and I collide

by Lizzen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: Fate brought them to this place, to this moment, and to each other. Intertwined in every way possible now. How can they not do this? But when desire outweighs prudence, the consequences must be endured. (Post s7)





	When you and I collide

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to th_esaurus and fickle_obsessions for cheerleading this.  
> I haven’t written het in a while. It was time.

There’s a simplicity in silence; nary a word as she draws him in, lets him close the door. Shutting out the others and leaving them alone between four walls. He’s terrified, watching her watch him. She’s still fully dressed despite the hour, as if she knew he would come to her door, rap softly, and live in hope that she’d respond. She’s still fully dressed as if armed for battle; no soft bedclothes, or bare shoulders, or womanly curves in sight. 

He keeps his back straight. Without words, there could be a miscommunication. She could be thinking that this was --

No, no. 

Her hands reach for him; one at his neck and the other at his hip. She tugs once, twice, before he pushes towards her. Finds his mouth close to hers, close enough to kiss. The ache in his belly radiates out, fills him up with a longing unnatural. She opens her mouth as if to say something, thinks the better of it, and then her lips are on his.

It lights a fire inside of him; kindling turned ravenous flame and all his desires flare up in his mind, screaming their intentions. He finds it hard to breathe as her tongue cautiously explores his mouth. Kisses were always his weakness, and he finds the taste of her intoxicating. It’s seemingly several minutes before she pulls away, a beguiling color of pink, and begins the silent negotiations of fingers versus furs and leather knots and wooden toggles. 

He helps her, of course, knowing his way around his own clothes but never with an extra set of steady hands. His own, of course, _of course_ , are trembling. Jon bites hard on his lip as he centers himself, wills himself to be still. Wills himself to be the king she wants, desires in her bed. 

If he immediately thinks himself the biggest fool in Westeros, it’s not his fault. And while he might be, _while he might be_ , there’s a remarkable river of bravery in his blood.

And suddenly standing in a pool of fur and leather, suddenly standing in only his small clothes next to his queen and liege lady, he’s going to need every drop. 

Her gaze is steady, and her hands reach first to his chest. Fingers sliding down his scars, and her eyes peer up at his. There will be time for explanations, he thinks, and his hand grips at her wrist. Pulls it up to her mouth, and he presses a kiss there. The first of many he wishes to press against her skin tonight. Her blush deepens to a beautiful color of rose, and with an almost calculating eye, she helps him out of his small clothes. 

Naked in the candlelight, he wonders if it may remain this way. Her, watching; him, watched. But then her hand reaches her collar and one slides behinds her back. It’s a swift act, and he’s helpless to just watch; her outer dress falls to the floor to leave behind a silk underdress, silver and sheer. 

How he will ache in future, knowing what she wears underneath. 

She hesitates then, almost bare to him, and her hands become little fists. Again, she opens her mouth to say something but words seem to die on her mouth. Shaking her head, she walks straight into his arms and crushes her mouth against his. It’s a filthy sort of kiss; not the one you’d expect from her. The kind you'd expect from someone wanton. All teeth and tongue and as if she’s goading him to do, lord, he doesn’t know what. 

No, no, he thinks. No, he knows exactly what to do.

A surge of bravery fills him and he’s lifted her off her feet. Mighty as she is, Daenerys is small in his arms. Just to feel her against his skin, the slide of silk and her hair, and his heart aches with longing to be part of her. Let her open her mouth and consume him utterly. 

He should be gentle, he really should, but there’s passion driving his movements now. Getting her on the bed, on her back, spreading open her legs and pushing her dress up above her middle. Getting his mouth on her before she can stop him. 

She gasps out into the night air as he does, and while her thighs tense and her hand grips his shoulder tight, she also opens her legs wider and whispers the word “yes.” 

Has this been done to her before, he wonders, and ignores the jealousy. _He_ ’s doing it now, and _he_ ’s very good at this. At kissing a woman here; kissing her again and again until she --

There’s a low growl that he hears as his tongue moves in a certain rhythm, so he keeps it up and presses harder. Slides in a finger to complement his actions against her sex. It’s a lovely thing to do, something wholly for her pleasure. Men talk so long and tediously about having their cock sucked that he always wondered what it was like for a woman. To have all this intimacy to themselves, to be the pleased instead of the pleasing. How joyous to find rapture without moving a muscle. Between his tongue and his fingers, he’ll bring her to completion again and again and again; a relentless act. Merciless and lingering. 

Then again, it’s not as if he’s not enjoying it himself; she’s not alone in being aroused.

There it is, he thinks, as she comes low and slow for the first time; there’s a keening noise that rises out of her and he can feel the walls of her sex shuddering against his fingers. He smiles against her skin, reveling in having done this. Bringing her some relief, a taste of bliss. And with that, he doubles his efforts and she writhes against him. 

The sour taste of her shifts as her sex wettens further. Part of him wants to stay here into the night, till she sleeps, exhausted from it. Part of him wants to taste her until she’s done, dry as a bone and overstimulated. He’s not afraid of subduing his own desire; he only wants to please her. Make her come until she can’t anymore. 

Her hand is tangled in his hair, and she tugs, once, twice. So he keeps it up, keeps fucking her with tongue and fingers, three deep now, and all the gentle force he can muster. Her pleasure blossoms out of her so sweetly; soft gasping noises and the roll of her hips and the mix of body shivers and sudden paralysis in her muscles. He stops, gasping for air himself, and wants to tell her what he knows. Wants to tell her: i’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, i’ll die for you, can i carry on doing this, please, please be happy with me. please be happy. 

There’s a low chuckle, and he feels it resonate from her belly outward. Her hand finds his wrist as it grips her thigh. “Enough,” she says. 

Before he’s know he’s done it, he’s beside her, limb to limb, chest to chest, and mouth to mouth. She tastes him slowly now, an explorative sort of kiss to taste herself on his lips. They lie like this for some time, kissing as if that’s all they’re here to do. As if they want to master the act with each other in the span of a few minutes. She’s quite good at it, at kissing him. And his heart races just thinking of how he’ll react to this memory in future, how he’ll remember the little sighs she makes and the loveliness of her mouth. 

To be perfectly fair, she helps him do it, but Jon finds himself carefully working to remove her silken underdress, somewhat desperate to have his skin on her skin. Hands negotiate and soon it’s off, a pool on the floor beside the bed and he immediately kisses her neck -- an opening volley -- before kissing down her skin to her breast. 

He lingers there for some time, and judging by her shivers and sighs, she quite happy with this decision. 

But then: her hand grips his wrist and her eyes are unmistakeable now. What she wants and how she wants it. Jon gets on his back and helps her on top of him. 

His dick has been mostly forgotten in this tryst until now, other than hard press of it against her silk shift and later her skin. He’s used to ignoring it, but now as she sinks on top of him, achingly slow, he’s completely and utterly aware of it, of the pulse of his own desire inside of him, and the irrepressible _want_ to be inside her forever. 

And there’s also this: her, mounted on top of him, her hair flowing around her and eyes shining in the dim light, her breasts uncovered and her skin welcoming his touch -- it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. In his awe, he’s unsure what to do and how to do it, so eager is he to please her and be worthy of her.

That’s when she moves. 

Expertly, and with a surprising strength, she rides him with an exquisite forcefulness. He could lie there and do nothing if he chose, but her courage and her kisses feed him. It’s not long before he’s flipped them around, pressing his full body against hers with his dick almost out of her in this position. He has to look at her in what little light they have. Has to stare into her eyes and wordlessly love her with all his heart. Fate brought them to this place, to this moment, and to each other. Intertwined in every way possible now. How can they not do this? 

She’s the heir to the Iron Throne and he will honor her from this day until her last day. 

There’s a smile on her face then as he shivers, overwhelmed by feeling, and she pushes him onto his back again.

He’s helpless against her, and thrusts up inside her as hard and fast, matching her mirrored pace and actions. Reason becomes irrational, irrationality becomes madness, and madness becomes a blinding white light behind his eyes as he comes wet and full inside of her. Used to his own hand on the rare occasion, he forgot that it could feel like this. Like falling forever into an abyss with no bottom, and loving every moment. She wrenches it out of him, every drop and feeling, and he’s too stunned to notice when she stops, and snakes her fingers down to her sex. With his softening dick inside of her, she pushes herself into a quick and sudden completion, fingers pressed against her clit, and the walls of her sex crash against his for a brief moment. 

With that, she falls on her side next to him and wraps her arm around his chest. And that’s when she laughs, a merry sort of sound. Sweet and light. Blinking, he turns to look at her, pink cheeks and bright eyes, and his smile grows and grows. Innocent-like, as if they have a secret to share.

He understands she’s no novice to all of this when she neatly rises and begins to clean up. It’s a relief, really; and the heavens know he needs a moment of pragmatism now. He helps, of course, and feels almost schooled with how quickly she moves. There’s an expectation of his that she’ll hand him his clothes, but instead, it’s a full cup of wine.

Jon is not a man of pleasures, neither wine nor women, but he drinks it down greedily; his mouth parched. There’s a warmth in his belly as he finishes it and an ease in his muscles. A confidence returns; he’s a guest in this room but not unwanted.

She returns to the bed and sits on it as if it’s a throne, and while she’s naked as the day she was born, it is as if her skin is marble covered in iron. Impenetrable. 

“You’ll stay tonight,” she says, and it’s not a question.

People have talked about him and his dealings all his life, nothing about that will change when the ship’s occupants discover and whisper about this dalliance. Still, his cheeks pink and he straightens his back. It’s enough to make him nervous, almost regret coming to her door. 

Almost.

Because, you see, there’s also a sweetness in it too. To know he will sleep next to her, wake up next to her. It’s a remarkable intimacy to look forward to, to have, to remember after.

“Tonight,” he echoes.

The curve of her mouth rises. “The rebellion that completed my family’s ruin began because a Targaryen fell in love with a Stark, you know. What if we’re the ones to heal that gaping wound?”

Jon Snow knows all about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and he winces with his whole face. Such a dark tale. “It’s a poetic thought—”

“I’m not interested in poetry, I am interested in fate.” She’s like a steel sword in this moment, fierce and unyielding. And he wonders about the contradictions of her; the soft and the sharp.

“You think it’s fate that brought us together?”

She looks at him, a long and searing sort of gaze and he remembers that he, himself, is naked. “You don’t?”

He gathers courage, gathers his thoughts, and moves to sit carefully next to her. And there’s a bit of surprise that blossoms in him as she lets him, as she puts her hand on his wrist and grips it lightly. A claim of sorts. “Dear heart,” he says, “What would I know?”

“You know enough,” she says. “And it’s _you_ who came to my door, Jon. What did you think would happen?” She seems to hesitate about something before-- “What would you think about being King Consort to She who Sits on the Iron Throne?” It’s a pivot he didn’t see coming, and now all he hears is a roar of white in his ears and there’s a slight blindness to his vision. She grips tighter. “I came to Westeros to take the throne. And take a husband.”

“I’m a bastard,” is all he’s able to get out.

“You’re King in the North. You’re a Stark. And my dragons like the look of you.” She smiles then, an honest sort of smile. “And _I_ like the look of you.”

He teeters a little before allowing himself to fall back, lie on his back on the bed like a child and stare up at the ceiling. “You want to marry me.”

She lays down next to him, and he can see in the periphery that she’s turned her head to look at him. “Is that such a terrible thing?” she says.

“Tyrion would advise against it.”

“I don’t know, really,” she says. “And I wasn’t planning to ask him regardless.”

As he opens his mouth to say others would also advise against it, he does consider how sensible it is. Young, unmarried; commanders of armies; fighting the same enemies. And the dead wouldn’t care if they were bonded or not. What difference would it make?

And with a helpless sort of laugh, he says, “I cannot deny you anything, but I’m—” and he sputters then like a complete ass. He has the feelings nostalgic about earlier when they spoke less and did more.

A soothing sort of noise croons out of her and she runs her fingers down his chest, circling each scar. “Then don’t deny me.” 

He closes his eyes and some of the roar in his ears dies down. Breathing himself calm, he lifts himself up to lean over her, press his hand against her waist. Wordless, his lips meet hers, soft and sure. 

It’s a kiss that goes on for quite some time. After such passion has past, it’s a kiss that is gentle and sweet. A serenity comes with it and he basks in the feeling, like slipping into a warm bath. Bodies adjust till she’s fully in his arms and her mouth is fully open, letting him in and in every way possible. 

He’s not fully realized that his fingers are back at her sex, lightly pressed against her in a gentle rhythm, until she’s coming again in his arms, breathing out his name into his ear, and sighing against his skin. As she shudders, she laughs. “That was lovely, but that was not an answer.”

“What if we wait till--” he starts and her hand catches his, grips it tight. 

“What if we don’t?” And her eyes in the dim light shine. “We could die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. And there’s not another king in Westeros worth his salt to make an alliance with me, to be my bedmate.”

“Poor Euron,” he says and she smiles. 

“And as I said. I like the look of you,” and her lips on his again. A fleeting touch. 

It’s madness to say no, it’s madness to say yes. 

“There’s a maester on this ship,” he whispers against her lips. And she lets out a big, beautiful sigh, as if she’d been holding it all this while. “There's a maester in Winterfell.” And at the tenor of her chuckle, at the winding of her arms around him, at the sweetness in her smile, Jon Snow knows what her answer will be. 

“Tomorrow then.”

She falls asleep shortly after that, some exhaustion taking over. And he realizes the gift in this; showing him her vulnerability, this quietness in her bones. Letting him have this intimacy with her in the dark watches of the night. And he is certain the coming days will have none of this sweet peace, her body against his and no one needing them for hours as the ship sails through the sea. It takes him some time to find sleep himself, his heart so full and mind so busy. 

What will tomorrow bring, if not more pain and discomfort? This moment must be treasured and remembered. 

And like water merging with water, he lets go, he lets go, _he lets go_. 

 

 

 

 

*


End file.
